On The Bro'd

We took the ferry to New Orleans. It was foggy as fuck and the water sorta reeked; we could see New Orleans glowing like a party beacon, beckoning with its bars and bands and hotties hanging from balconies in the crunked-out night. The iPhones of the ferry passengers shimmered in the darkness. My dude Big Slim Hazard had gotten arrested in New Orleans for indecent exposure; Mississippi Derek had gotten arrested up in here too; and as we crossed the river to the parties beyond I knew that awesome shit would happen and possibly one day it would be so awesome as to be The Shit. And what’s pretty ironic is that the day after we took the ferry, Brad Pitt also took it, and we saw some pictures in the paper the next day.

Old Bull pulled out a vaporizer and said to go at it, dinner would ready soon. “Smoking up before eating is pretty awesome. I once ate a rancid Arby’s sandwich after blazing and it tasted like the most delicious thing in the world. I just got back from Houston last week, went to see the Black Eyed Peas with Jane. We were crashing at my buddy’s and one morning I woke up like crazy. That dude had most incredible surround sound system I’d ever seen. Everybody else pays contractors like huge wads of cash to set up systems, but my dude just wired and tricked out the whole thing, saved a big pile of dough. I’d like to watch the Bastogne episode of Band of Brothers on that shit, would be loud as fuck. A dude can’t watch TV without a decent surround sound system.”

Old Bull Lee spent long hours watching Band of Brothers—“the most awesome shit ever,” he called it. Since he moved to the South, he spent a ton of time trying to get good a barbequing, and although he was always trying to grill shit, he never got much better. One time I was like, “Why the fuck would you ever want to eat something with a dry rub?” and he was like, “When you dry rub it brings out hickory flavors, dumbass.”

I could fill like a warehouse with the shit I know about Old Bull Lee; most importantly, dude taught people how to party, and he was totes qualified to teach that shit because he lived his whole life learning his “clutch-ass party essentials,” which were the total shit. He transferred his ass to like eight different colleges during undergrad, always trying to find which school had the sickest vibe; he hooked up with the Provost at Michigan State to keep from getting expelled; there are Facebook pictures of him hanging with the 2007 LSU BCS-champs—huge dudes slugging shots and laying babes; there are other Facebook pictures of him in a Florida State hat, winning at flipcup in Seminole country; he never hooked up with the Provost again. He was an intermural basketball champion at Illinois State, an equipment manager at UT-Austin, a beer pong master of Penn State. In Madison he sat on porches, hollering at freshman hotties walking by. In Athens, Ohio he never went to class but managed to stay enrolled for two semesters. At San Diego State he threaded his way through the quads, looking for a party. In the Ohio State dorms he did like five chicks at once. At Illinois State he planned the naked mile, let word get out too much about it, and wound up running ass-naked from the cops. He was like the grandmaster of partying. Now the final study was being all chill as fuck. He was now in New Orleans, taking it easy and getting mad high.

Bull rolled up in the Rover and our crew was already all up in his crib; he was still pretty stoked to see me. He bought this crib in New Orleans after graduation with some crazy dough he pulled down from some real smart sports bets. Dude pulled down occasional cash from freelance sports blogging, which was good dough but he was always spending mad cash on beer and weed—and his lady was also pricey as fuck, buying like a ton of Gucci shades all the time.

We cruised over to Old Bull Lee’s crib. There were like a ton of swamps and shit everywhere. The house was in buttfuck nowhere, but it was a sort of awesome swamp-party pad; the grass was covered in red Solo cups, old beeramids leaned, old kegs sat on the porch. Nobody was around. We rolled up to the crib. I went up to the front door. Bull’s wife Jane answered the door while checking her phone. “What up, Jane?” I was like, “It’s me.”

It's totes official, bros. On The Bro'd is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or wherever books are sold. You can even get it as an eBook, if you're some kind of douche with a Kindle.

I was amped; a car full of hotties blasted past us, going to Mobile. We had to hook up with them. I peeled off my shirt and flexed for them. A little later when we wanted some brews, Dean cruised into a gas station all quiet as hell, saw the dude inside was asleep, busted out, stole some beers, made sure the dude didn’t wake up, and rolled off like a ninja with a 30-rack of Natty for our pilgrimage.

He and I suddenly saw the whole country like a mad club for us to get into; and the bottle service was there, the bottle service was there. We kept hauling ass south. We gave another dude a ride. This dude told us about some amazing house party that was going down in North Carolina. “When we get there can you get us some tail? Hell yeah! Wooo! Let’s do it!” We rolled up there like an hour later, right around party o’clock. We found the house and there was no fucking party. What the shit was that dude thinking?